180 Degree Turn
by Superkitty140
Summary: After England accidentally casts a spell, America and Russia are forced to live in each others bodies. Now it is up to them to find out a solution to this problem before time runs out.
1. Prologue

I just have to say that I've been looking for a story like this for _far_ too long and I've decided that if I want it done than I have to do it myself. This is going to be fun to write so wish me some luck!

_Summery:_ After England accidentally casts a spell, America and Russia are forced to live in each others bodies. Now it is up to them to find out a solution to this problem before time runs out.

_Warnings:_ OOC moments, some colorful language, romance, ect.

_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Hetalia in any way, shape, form, matter, idea, broadband, ect.

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><p>Everything looks like a blank sheet of paper. The billowing storm doesn't let any light pass through as it encompasses the land with its fury, only the specks of gray and brown can be seen to resemble the sky and the surrounding trees. The sound of snow compacting under snowshoes can be heard over the shaking of trees and the violent wind. Only the strong and the dumb ever come out at this time, to be beaten by the waves of powder, dirt, and branches.<p>

The figure moves through the snow, with clothes barely visible to onlookers. He is adorned with a tan jacket, a sable brown ushanka hat and a light pink scarf to protect against the outside. There is also a bundle of wood carried over one shoulder, soon to be put into a fire on this cold winter day.

Russia follows the path that he has crossed so many times in the past to gather wood for his fireplace. Every year he needs to come to this house out in the middle of nowhere to access the situation in the tundra, it is an event every year that he never looks forward to.

Soon enough, he makes it to the fence of his property, and from there takes it step by step to his door. As he is about to push down the handle, Russia spots a letter wedged into the crack between the lock and the house. He takes it out, assuming it to have been delivered while he was gone and the weather was nicer, and thrusts the door open. He slams it closed as he takes off his jacket and hat, replacing his boots with the favorable thick slippers.

Glancing at the letter, Russia notices that it has an address from San Francisco, California. Narrowing eyes in disapproval, he sits himself down at his worn out sofa.

Russia lets out a sigh as he sees that the snow did quite some damage to the text. Even though it was typed some of the letters were blurry and blotched, or just plain unreadable.

Fortunately, the content of the letter wasn't difficult to decipher, despite inconveniences. It was mostly just America going on about how his vacation in warmer weather is so _amazing_ and how Russia is so _uncool_ because it is always so _freaking cold_. Also it was brought up about how Russia is _so old _because he still is using letters instead of the email or cell phones.

Russia crumpled the letter in his hands and put it on the coffee table to be added into the fire once it was started.

'Why can't that idiot understand' Russia thought as he put his hand into his pale blonde hair. 'Why does he always feel so compelled to write me letters to just jab and brag?'

Standing up to make his way to the fireplace, Russia continues to think. 'It's quite wimpy actually, to be writing from such a warm place in the winter. Only the old do that these days, and up here I'm actually doing real work, not just partying and goofing off all winter.' He shifts the wood into place, 'And out here in the middle of Siberia, of course there are no phone and internet services. Why does he even need to say something like that? And who would ever call me out here anyway, even if I did hook up the internet or something.'

That was a depressing thought. Russia shoved leftover newspaper under the logs, carefully adding the letter he was sent to the stash. He struck a match and gently placed it on the paper he was sent. Russia gazed as the words slowly became distorted and disappeared in the flames. It soon caught on to the rest of the paper and slowly the fire rose up to the logs.

The letter was no longer legible and the first flame rose from the logs, promising a sure fire and this flame caught on. The fire from the paper died, leaving it all a pile of soot as the logs lit on fire.

This was good. All that was left was to wait until another log needs to be added. Russia got up and brought his chair to the fire, with a book on one side and a bottle of vodka on the other. Although, he couldn't take his mind off of the letter.

'If only he could understand that the cold war has ended, what it is like to still be disliked by so many other countries, maybe just as stubborn as him. He has no judgment of what it is like out here, to be me,' he takes a drink of vodka, 'What does he know about me, he's never even spoken to me, not since the war,' he finishes half the bottle and starts to talk out loud, "He's never heard me, or even cared about what I do or say. He's so caught up in the past that he never even bothers to see the present. What one of his rights allows him to make judgments without even bothering to look more than a centimeter away from those glasses."

Russia chucks the bottle into the fire without even bothering to finish it and watched the flames rise higher than ever, causing the room to turn a bright yellow in flames. He watched at the flames crawl away from the fire, dancing in with each other and laughing merry tunes. Russia tries to stomp them out in vain as they keep on coming and eating up the floor. He puts his head in his hands and hides in the corner, away from the fire.

He opens his eyes, to see the fire calmly burning in the fireplace and the wood as dead and cold as always. He stands up to look at the half empty vodka bottle and the unopened book on the table. Walking back to the fire he bends down to place another log into the fading flames. He gets up and sits back in his chair, choosing to stare absentmindedly at the fire and wondering if he will get any reading done tonight at all.

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><p>The night was waning dim as England sauntered into his house. He felt for the light switch with the back of his hand until eventually it was found. A ray of light hit his eyes and his pupils slowly dilated, the rush of pain soon following.<p>

"Damn that Alfred… leaving me hanging like that…" England thought out loud, his cheeks red and his eyes slightly bloodshot.

He stumbled to the kitchen to get a glass of water; although as he took a drink the liquid splashed all over his face and onto his already wet clothes.

"Who does he think he is? I'm England, that's who I am, and he's nothing. Nothing!" gagging for a few seconds, England proceeds to laugh absentmindedly at his comment.

"I'll show him! I'll teach him to respect me! Yeah…" England stepped away from his kitchen counter and stumbled to his sofa. He plops down and reaches out for a brown book lying not too far away. England turns open to a random page, and starts reading off the text.

Chanting incessantly, the old words low out of England's mouth like a waterfall, only stopping to take quick breath occasionally. The page starts to glow as the ancient symbols move and change shape. Suddenly a burst of light pours out from the illustration as England finishes his chanting, but as soon as it came it left.

Not even bothering to close the book, England falls into a steady sleep on his desk, unaware of the damage that he had caused.

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><p>This completes the first installment of <em>180 Degree Turn<em>, now it's time to see what happens next.

I can definitely say that it is nice to take a break from over the top complex story-lines and essay writings and write something that is fun. And this story is going to be very fun. (muahaha I can just see it now :D)

Over break I can probably fit in a update or two, although I'm not so sure how sporadic the updates will be like as of yet. Just keep posted and r&r!


	2. The Switch

Hello~ Sorry for the incredebly long delay, there was an epoch battle between midterms and schoolwork that distracted me from everything else, but I'll try my best to update faster from now on. Well, so here is the part that we have all been waiting for (well, at least I have), The Switch.

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><p>The morning light streamed through the windows. America groaned as it hit his eyelids, he didn't want to wake up, not yet. He was having such a wonderful dream. Hamburgers were falling from the sky while he was playing video games, and even Japan was there, showing off his new skills at Smash Brothers. Perhaps he could sleep for just a little while longer.<p>

Alfred pulled the blankets closer to him and rolled over to try to get more comfortable. He did feel a little disproportionate regarding his weight, but shrugged it off as it was still early in the morning. After some nice coffee all will be fine.

But the light was still there.

Alfred usually kept the blinds closed as he slept, so this was a little odd. He must have just forgotten to close them last night. America admits that he is rather forgetful, like how he is always forgetting the name of that nation above him. What was his name… oh, Canada! Ha, that's him! Just wait until I tell him! Wait… who?

Alfred tried to block out the light with his sheets, but it was no use. He finally realized that if he wanted the light gone he might as well just close the blinds himself.

Alfred slowly opened his eyes to the early morning air, only to realize that he wasn't nearly as tired as he usually was. Weird. Mornings really weren't his thing, it usually took at least a few cups of coffee to wake him up. Then his eyes landed on his hair.

It was a pale, whitish blond color that was much longer than his hair usually was. This was not his hair.

He was shocked for a second until he realized that somebody must have pulled a prank on him and bleached his hair while he was sleeping. It can happen!

The second thing that America noticed was that it was cold. Maybe he left the air conditioning running too high last night. He pulled the sheets close to his body as he slowly sat up and squinted around the room.

This wasn't his room.

This room was full of old; worn out, cabin style furniture, with a dark wood floor and pale beige walls. There were a few photographs of people that Alfred couldn't yet see, and some medium sized windows that were letting light in.

To Alfred's first disappointment, the windows didn't have blinds to cover them with. Then he resolved that whoever bleached his hair probably put him here as well. Outside there was snow on the ground, with the sun gleaming off of the top layer of ice. A far call from his current residence in San Francisco.

As his eyesight got better Alfred got a better look at the photographs, noticing that a certain Russian seemed to be in quite a few of them. Of course! Russia must have kidnapped him and brought him to this desolate land as a prisoner. It's the only answer! Who knows what that commie is up to?

That still didn't make up for the fact that Alfred felt different. Something was off, but he just couldn't put a finger on it.

Alfred was about to throw off his sheets and heroically dash out of the front door before he noticed something else. The hand that was in front of him wasn't his. This hand was thick, muscular, and had heavy calluses from strenuous work. Not to say that America's hand didn't have muscle, but the calluses and overall largeness of it was new.

While he still held the blanket, Alfred observed his arm, which was much thicker than it usually was, and his shoulder, being broader and sturdier.

This caused panic.

America stared at the wall as he dashed out of bed and tried to find a mirror. Luckily, there was one next to the door of the bedroom. He rushed up to it to see what he looked like, although when he got there, it wasn't his reflection that he saw.

He saw a pair of dark violet eyes, round cheeks, and pale blonde hair. It seemed as though he had run upon a terrified Russia, which was an oxymoron in itself.

America stood there gaping for a few seconds until finally he brought his shaking hand up to his face. He touched his nose and forehead and watched as the hand in the reflection did the same. He pinched himself in the cheek, and it hurt.

"Oh, shit." Eyes wide Alfred stepped away from the mirror, as the voice that came out of his mouth wasn't his.

He looked down on himself to notice that the ground was much lower than usual. He was clothed in dark blue flannel pajamas with a light shaded scarf around his neck and dark brown slippers on his feet. Alfred felt like he was going to have a heart attack, until he took a few deep breathes and closed his eyes for a few seconds.

He sat down on the bed after a bit with his eyes closed and the refusal to acknowledge that anything out of the ordinary had happened. He opened them quickly in hope that things would be different, but it was just a useless action.

Alfred looked down again at his lap and noticed the thickness of his new legs. He put both hands on one of his thighs and felt around, noticing the stronger build and the bulk that wasn't evident on his own body. Then he realized that, in fact, he had never been this close to the commie before. He usually tried to keep his distance from him, so touching was out of the question.

Still tense, Alfred brought his hands away from his legs and folded them. Then suddenly, his chest started really hurting. Alfred assumed it was the adrenaline, but he tightly wrapped his arms around himself and bend over to suppress the pain.

Then the pain just stopped all of a sudden and Alfred started feeling woozy as a cold feel came over him. He opened his eyes to confront a giant, bloody mess laying on the floor and an opening in his chest. His eyes rolled back and suddenly the heart wasn't the only thing lying on the floor.

~oO~Oo~

Matthew wasn't a lazy person. He had gotten up at exactly 7 am that morning, as per usual, and started making himself a fulfilling breakfast of pancakes with maple syrup and Canadian bacon, which despite everything that his brother had said is definitely _not_ ham.

Then he followed his routine by feeding Kumijamero, his pet polar bear, a nutritious breakfast of seal and krill. Kimujerano was such a well behaved bear, it made Matthew feel so proud.

Seeing that his breakfast was ready, he brought the food over to his table, washed the dishes, and then finally sat down to eat. He always needed a full meal before he could begin the next stage of his plan.

Matthew ate alongside his beloved Kumumero and gazed out of the window and into the nice day that was starting to unfold. There was a great blue sky that reflected off of the thin layer of snow that coated the ground, an unusual sight for this time of year, and he stayed there staring until after he had finished his breakfast, thinking about how great the day will be.

He was suddenly caught out of his revere by a soft "who are you" coming from his side.

"I'm Canada of course, your owner, the one who feeds you."

"Oh yeah…" the bear got bored of the conversation and fell asleep on the window sill.

Canada grabbed his cell phone that he left charging overnight on his living room outlet and hastily began to turn it on. Noticing a message from Gilbert, he ignored it and decided to complete his morning ritual first.

Shuffling through his contacts list for about two seconds, Matthew quickly found the "a" section and then pressed down on the first contact on the list. He then clicked the dialer button and then waited until he started hearing ringing…

Ring…

And ring…

And ring…

And nobody picked up.

He quickly pressed the "end" button once the obnoxious voice message machine started talking and then tried again…

Ring...

"Hello?" a tired voice sounded from the other side.

"Hey, it's Matthew. It's morning, wake up."

"…Canada? Chto? Why are you calling… we don't have a meeting today?"

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><p>And that's that. The next chapter I am partially done with, but I thought that this would be a good stopping place. Let's see what Canada has to say.<p>

I am going to be truthful here, I really want a scene with Alfred taking a shower, and I kinda want something a little smutty later on, so the rating is probably opt to change at this point. And for those of you who were wondering, this is going to become a Russia x America pairing so I'm giving you a heads up that there is going to be some romantic interest later on.

Also, I've been really wanting to start a review goal for my chapters. Perhaps for this one I will set it for a 5? Let's see what happens.

And lastly, if you remove the "f" from the word scarf then it spells "scar," a mistake that I almost made while writing this chapter.


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